


Division of Labour

by theimprobablewon



Series: Semantics, Syntax and Semtex [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, M/M, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, deserted island au, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimprobablewon/pseuds/theimprobablewon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Rule number one,"<br/>"I'm not playing."<br/>"Blame all of your sexual frustration, mistakes and short comings on a woman. Preferably one who has had sex."<br/>"Jim. Stop."<br/>"Rule number two. Do shit in threes."<br/>"We need to keep this fire going you spoiled arsehole! Why didn't you get more wood?!"<br/>"Rule number three. When you die, keep it brief and have it be the result of either phallic or edenic symbolism."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Division of Labour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragunov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragunov/gifts).



> After three or four days of trying to find one, I still have no beta reader. So if anyone has any references, please send them my way.   
> And if you find mistakes or critiques please come forward so I can make corrections and cry over them.

"Do no'... s'op... kickin'... arsehole!" Sebastian shouted between mouthfuls of ocean water. The towering waves slammed them against the water, hurling the two gasping men in a directionless zigzag. "Come on!... qui'... n'dir'y... swim less'n... kick!... fucking twat!"

 Sebastian did his part to coerce that zigzag with toward the teasing outline of a shore off in the distance. As the violent water rocked Jim in and out of awareness, Sebastian bit his neck every time the kicking stops and Jim's face lulled down into the surface of the ocean. The salt water stung his already agonized lungs whenever it was swallowed. With every inhale another sip of water came closer to drowning him and with every rattling exhale the water was coughed back into the monster it came from to make room for the next breath.

The first time Sebastian's long leg scraped against a bit of sand he convinced himself to either dismiss it as a false positive or to give up and drown right then and there because Jim doesn't leave nearly enough room on his shoulders for the burden of false hope. The second time it happens, he doesn't know what to believe. He compromises, no, no, he might have survived, but Jim probably died on him. Or he's dead right now. Or they just washed ashore a deserted island to die of dehydration before any of his smokes get to dry. God above, he swears colourfully for any of those options, just one, he's not a choosy, to come true. 

But the tip toes of ocean floor eventually gave way to entire steps and those are succeeded by waist high water. Sebastian trudged forward, dropped Jim in the sand just a hairs width above the tide and doubled over into the scalding pain in his lungs and muscles. The jagged sea shells blanketing the sand crunch softly, like rotten bones, as Sebastian buckled down to cough himself in and out of consciousness.

\---

The phones are beyond salvation and a waterproof phone case is now at the top of their shopping list. What they have that is worthwhile is used with unbiased pragmatism. Sebastian tears into Jim's 900 quid suit jacket with his Swiss army knife and uses the lining in his hunting traps. The 400 quid dress shirt is used to hold together their shelter. Sebastian kicked his own shoes and coat off as soon as they had to jump off the burning boat, so he uses Jim's 1300 quid leather shoes to collect what little storm water may or may not ever ruin their piss poor beach shelter or save their lives.

The island, if it is an island, has forty or fifty something feet stretch of sand with a dense forest spread some thirty feet away from the shore line. The island rises off into jagged rocks and slope faces on either side of them, with more foliage overflowing off the sides of those. There are no fish--or rather, there're only groups of thumb sized somethings that aren't worth the calories Sebastian burned chasing them down.  

Sebastian led the way through their first trip into the forest and later provided the air of urgency when he pushed and fortified Jim after the first bee flew by because fuck if he's going to drag that son of a bitch through three miles of water to have him die from a pissing bee sting. He very nearly dragged Jim out of the forest in his rush and brought the wood for the fire and the sticks for their shelter. But fire first, smoke the buzzing shits out of the beach just in case they get a taste for Jim's scrawny arse because Sebastian _will no_ t share that scrawny arse thank you very much.

"Here get this going to keep the bees away." Sebastian stacked the wood in a cone shape and piled the rest beneath the remnants of Jim's suit. "Just keep it smoking and I'll see how far out I can go before I can't see the smoke. Then put it out if anyone else comes ashore so I know."

Jim fell back onto the sand with a \ thud. "We've all read Lord of the Flies, honey. I know how this goes."

Sebastian dropped his lighter onto Jim's chest. "If I'm going to invest the effort in a deserted theme, I'd be partial for more of a Catch 22."

"What? No Rime of the Ancient Mariner? That one's got your name all over it." Jim closes his eyes and smirks. "Which means more Gilligan's Island for me."

"Far be it from me to come between you and your shit telly. I'd've pegged you as a Gulliver's Travels man, though. Thought you'd be all about any writer with a hankering for Irish babies."

Jim snickers as he rolls over onto his stomach in and carves some numbers into the sand. When Jim's smile wilts to a focused scowl, Sebastian takes his leave back into the forest. Tomorrow, or after whenever Sebastian finds food, he'll look for the hive. If it's still light out. But food first. No--fire first, then food, wait, no, Jim's a fucking snob, he'll need a shelter the first night, so, okay, it's fire then shelter then food.

\---

Jim became just another force of nature on this godforsaken island. there were probably ways and better ways and best ways to endure the typhoon-energy caged down to his mind and its island, maybe even avoid property damage. but the inactivity, of all things, became his breaking point. he made a sport out of the bees, testing their remarkably high aggression. but couldn't ever slip through them far enough to find their hive. or hives, as he quickly suspected. hives situated _ever so neatly_ within, he guessed, but really measured, exactly eight and one half footsteps apart, around the entire edge of the forest that surrounded the shore.

he made a tally out of how many he can kill and cross compares it with how many they have killed. He lived, so he technically won. but only if the hive is not considered a single entity, which he flips about through his mind for another round of sun up to sun down because _maybe_ but _what if_ and _only if you squint at it_. this lasted for all of one afternoon, at which point Jim picked up his standards, brushed off the dirt, and stopped measuring himself with the comings and goings of fucking insects.

the next day, thoughts of bees and such are repainted to reflect on how the client's ship's engine caught fire oh so conveniently by this place. now, sinking an entire ship just to strand him and what's-his-face, _that_ had a dramatic flair. Like brother like brother, as Jim will need to point out whenever he speaks to mycroft next. and god or satan or the cosmos as his witness he will. with no doubt. force himself to survive this for the sake of living to see mycroft holmes' devastation. because Jim is not some snot nosed coke head to be tut tuted, to be put in time out whenever he steps out of mycroft holmes' line and grinds his heal into it and he. _will_. force himself to live to teach this to mycroft. holmes. even if it kills him.

\---

"Jim? ...Jim get up, put your shoes out for the rain and help me with this." Jim toed off his shoes and sent them tumbling down the sand. When Sebastian set them upright and dumped his armload of sticks on Jim, they compromised. Jim sat in the sand, which had generously been accepted as more helpful than moping in the sand. He organizes the shelter material and looks pretty while Sebastian fashions the sticks and grass into a ceiling using swears and shoe laces.

"I don't know what there is to eat in the forest." Sebastian volunteered irritably. He waited too long for Jim to never respond before continuing. "If you told me where the  ship was heading before it sank, I could probably figure out what grows or shits here." Jim's head began to rock. Eye contact was avoided. "So. I'd find better food than whatever the fuck is growing within immediate arm reach of camp."

"Probably." Jim agreed musically. He reorganized the sticks he just sorted yet again into a pattern or category that went above Sebastian's head.

"Jim."

The head continued to churn.

"Jim where are we?"

Swayed in tune with the momentum of the ocean's deafening waves.

Sebastian didn't ask again. He accepted his ignorance like he would a new tie Jim ordered him to wear much too tight for the rest of the day. Anger thrown at Jim is one less adrenalin high that could be spent on taking from this island until they'd had their fill.  Because be it nature or man or Mycroft his fucking majesty Holmes they will take and disrupt and burn through the world they washed ashore on with their Midas touch. Or Sebastian will die and let die trying.

\---

Mycroft Holmes did not teeter for balance on the needle point of his career. He impaled himself, securely, and symmetrically, because to teeter is to wager and he will. Never. Let anything as fruitless as the winds of chance push him over as he clawed his fingers begingly at the unforgiving unending unwelcome rush of death threatening to envelope him in a patronizing embrace.

He is important. Everything he orders and says and glances over is important. As will be his replacement when Mycroft is killed. Eventually. But for the moment his tea is hot, and his plans are favorable.

"Anthea,"

"Sir."

"Pencil in Mister Moriarty and Mister Moran for dinner next chance I have."

Anthea paused. Wondering. And finally obeyed. "Yes, sir." Her fingers pricked and wove across her phone with musical precision, bookmarking sites to compare prices on ship rentals and wine.

Mycroft put his hand on her shoulder where gooseflesh spread with a feverish panic not unlike a forest fire. "Do try to keep bunkered down. I should think they may attempt to flee, and I have an interest in knowing how."

"Yes, sir." Anthea answered quickly.

\---

"Your character. Would represent white imperialism." Jim spread out his words like notes to examine. "And. My character. Would. Be the embodiment of Sebastian's inner demons. And either you get saved and the only sane person in your world steps off the boat and tells you there's no need to stick around then you realize the addictively toxic influence you have over yourself. Or when you die on the island, in your last few moments you realize I'm just a figment of your imagination that you projected because you. Needed. Someone to maintain so that you could focus your energies away from your struggle to--"

Sebastian dragged Jim out of the hut by the ankles, pushed him down the slope and went back inside to finish pretending to sleep.

"Don't you want to hear what the island represents?"

"Is it fucking purgatory?"

"It is now. Arsehole."

\---

Sebastian stayed in the forest for most of every day. The alternative was wallowing in his own inactivity by the shore. To Sebastian's eventual surprise, there's not only enough food in the forest, but it grew on the lowest braches and all but _wandered_ into his traps. The experience was markedly different from his expected hours of shit crawling until the game is in just that right angle. There was no forced tolerance of over worked muscles, aching from fatigue and hunger. Not yet, at least. Sebastian would wait until he rolled up his sleeves and went throat deep into the island's back waters until he could write off that there was absolutely nothing here ready and able to bite through his skull if he stole one or two of its young.

Jim, meanwhile, sat his nights away on the beach. He stared upward and dissected the intercrossing, fluxing, beating veins of the stars, silently, right where they left him. He had examined the island first. Then memorized the cogs of its ecosystem, looking for somewhere he could interject himself. A play empire to keep his webs strong and in practice. But nature took his chaos away before it could be spun, pelting the island with storms and killing the denizens of Sebastian's world in his stead. So he left the island alone for Sebastian to paw at and settled himself with examining the dynamics of asteroids and their counterparts. Because if he is going to put all the time and effort into out gunning chaos itself, there needs to be some goddamn showmanship and aren't stars just the pinnacle of drama.

Every evening Sebastian came back from his wilderness into their little corner, he brought gifts. Water from the spring he found. Aloe plants, for the sunburn that quickly overwhelmed Jim's deathly paleness. And dead things for dinner. Like a cat assuming his owner is too stupid to hunt for himself. Oh but then there's that _sex_ they have while Sebastian comes down from his adrenalin high. In the hut, on the sand with the tide, or sometimes, like now, Sebastian will be convinced to hold Jim up against a tree by the hive. The bark of the tree scraped against Jim's burnt back, even now when all Sebastian does is work in the forest's aloe with one, then two, _damn it Seb get on with it!_ three fingers. Sebastian ground his hips against Jim's spread legs as he adds more aloe. When Sebastian _about goddamn time_ lined himself and pressed in, Jim pulled those hips closer, harder, _now!_ with his wrapped legs until Sebastian matched his vigor and Jim screamed as he stared at the stares throughout, needing so very desperately to dissect. Jim washed away their blood and come in the ocean while Sebastian cooked the food, sometimes testing how long it would take before he needed to come up for air, until Sebastian's smoke cleared away from the night sky. 

\---

"He knew about the bees," Jim said after consideration. He grinned as this boundary, this unspoken don't show me yours and I won't have to show you mine, in his sport shatters into a barren field of unlimited opportunity and stimulation. Or it will, at least, once he returned to his high thread counts and platter of wayward souls. "Everything is fair game now. Mycroft knew!" If Sebastian lets himself, he can hear Jim giggle under the words.

Sebastian knew he was right. So he let himself grieve. Then he let himself get excited right along with Jim because if they're going to war against Mycroft Holmes it wouldn't be worth the match to burn that bridge unless Jim could take aim at everything in Mycroft's sun-never-sets kingdom.  

\---

Jim is more terrified that his stream of information has halted than of anything as petty as starvation.

Sebastian stepped out of their stick-mud-and-Westwood shelter one morning and on a corner of equations that Jim spent hours or the night or the last twenty minutes carving into the sand. Jim saw the dent in his effort and kicked the rest of his work, made a sand castle out of the chaos, and left to piss and cool off in the ocean water. This only lasted for hours or the day or for twenty minutes, Sebastian isn't sure, because when he returned to the beach a four foot high sand castle was waiting there, Jim had gone out far enough to get caught in a rip tide, and the scene made time sit still as a tomb.

"Jim!" Sebastian screamed as he ran out to the water. "For fucks sake, Jim!"

Sebastian waded Jim through the rip tide, pulled him in from the ocean. Coughing and unsure how to direct his panic, Sebastian shoved Jim down onto the sand and made a bee line for his dwindling cigarettes. Which. Are gone.

The final straw breaks his back. Sebastian kicked down the shelter, roaring and swearing. "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH MY CIGARETTES?!"

"Burned 'em."

Sebastian pulled at his hair as he threw the supplies across the beach and kicked up sand. " _WHY_?"

"I needed to see what would happen." Jim continued to stare at the ocean.

Fan.

Fucking.

_Tastic_.

Sebastian let his rage whirlwind through their camp, destroying what is theirs or what is the island's. He never let it come near Jim, though. Not today, at any rate. Because every night he fell asleep to the cooing fear of what he would be if he ever let his favorite drug burn.

\---

"Rule number one,"

"I'm not playing."

"Blame all of your sexual frustration, mistakes and short comings on a woman. Preferably one who has had sex."

"Jim. Stop."

"Rule number two. Do shit in threes."

"We need to keep this fire going you spoiled arsehole! Why didn't you get more wood?!"

"Rule number three. When you die, keep it brief and have it be the result of either phallic or edenic symbolism."

\---

 Soon as he got the best of his withdrawal, Sebastian invented different ways to gamble on the island's animals or wind or plants then looked for the best ways to cheat. With himself. Jim alternates between watching his progress and mocking his progress  and wandering away for several days at a time.

The first time Sebastian found their camp empty, he wasn't surprised, per se, but volunteered a once over of the shoreline. Presuming that Jim would move away from the bees and to their fire if he were stung. Or in case a group of locals or MI6 broke through to their little island before Jim's efforts of rescue. Because there have been efforts. Yes, there really have. Jim sees the pulls and plucks of the universe woven tight enough to strangle so clearly. There's no doubt he hasn't already invested in two or three insurances incase he ever gets stranded on a deserted fucking island of all goddamn things.

But those thoughts and others sank away from Sebastian's concerns around the same time he fit himself into the grotesquely tidy struggle of his jungle life. And the hunt, God, the elegance of the triumph over death and life and nature as it tears pieces from his flesh and mind until it rattles out one last growl and falls down into the blood-warm mud. When the meal is claimed, Sebastian starts to feel itchy. But to over hunt is counterproductive and in such poor taste.

But, yes. Jim's disappearance. Sebastian never assumed anything when no evidence suggests a struggle. Jim knew to keep from the bees. Besides, Jim's an adult he can go where he likes, die how he likes,  He waited loyally, or at the very least, he returns with food at the end of every hunt.

Jim does return, eventually, somehow, and sat him down to draw him a full map of the island in the sand, complete with forest density and slope height. The map felt invasive to Sebastian. "Is that a boat?" Sebastian pointed to the little half moon drawn off the side on the opposite end of the island as their camp.

"Don't mind her. Don't give her the satisfaction."

"Who? Jim are there people there right now who can get us out?"

"Not if she can help it."

Sebastian runs his hands through his shaggy beard and hair. "Who the fuck is 'she'?"

"She... is the... I don't know, maybe personification of the wind? What with the sailing and all that jazz. But I haven't finished the story yet so that may change. Anyway, if she's the wind, then her being bound to--'

Sebastian walks away pacing and swearing and shouting and throws the dead snakes on top of the sand map. "Skin your own goddamn dinner tonight and grow the fuck up."

"But unless she manages to reassert her independence she won't be able to become a well rounded character--"

Sebastian scratched wildly at his grimy hair as he retreated back into the forest. When he returned the next day, Jim had redone the map. It was fixed to include the hot spots Sebastian uses for prey. There were also little lizards which marked the spots with the trees Sebastian slept in.

"Jim. How did you find out all this?"

"The island shifts around where you are. The animals move away from you or closer to you to get rid of you I don't know I don't judge them they don't know any better, and the bees change their flight patterns to avoid the rest of the animals. They know so I know so now you know. But you don't. Really. Or else that order would be reversed."

"Bullocks, you followed me in." 

"Then why didn't you hear me?"

"No. You couldn't've been in there long enough and not get stung. Hell I get stung every other bloody time I walk through there."

"Because you never pay attention. To anything. Besides whatever you're gunning for."

"..."

"You also breath loudly. And stomp. And sigh."

"..."

"Guess you've lost your edge."

\---

Anthea habitually shuffled her deck of cards whenever she got a moment to sit down while she sails the Don Juan through the Atlantic. Mr. Holmes picked the name. Mr. Holmes also picked out the wine, silverware and straight razors she had below deck because God forbid he deliver his passive aggression to the 'Napoleon of the Realms of Crime' without a bow on top.

It's a small ship, and felt smaller still when it's out in open water. Anthea tried to let the affect make her feel more secure about her inconspicuousness, but accepts the open ended reality that if someone wanted to see her, then they would. She came to accept that, at least, it wasn't written in the fine print of the job to sneak up on anyone. So she considered it a draw between her and herself. Technically. Which isn't good enough.

The survivors of Mr. Holmes' ship that sunk some two or three miles out were surprisingly low. But the sharks in these waters must have been on the prowl some twenty minutes after anyone's burned and bloodied body sank. Only a handful made it this close to the island, and those precious few always went straight to her boat. She and her crew of two followed their orders.

The first ship they saw came in the same day they did. It attacked first, but forfeited its opportunity for a win in a moment of _will_ _they kill us will they report us have they even seen us_ hesitation. Their first bullet is shot a few seconds after she has already taken aim with her harpoon. Their ship recoiled from the hit, and the bullet grazed a tuff of her unbrushed hair. A bleeding handful of cheap meat followed the ship into the water, summoning sharks to a first feeding. Moriarty's recruits sank one after the other with some small, panicked effort.

\---       

"Once, a peasant woman was walking from the market next to the river when she heard a voice call out to her,

'Woman! Please will you help my daughters and I?'

The woman, lets name her something. Humanize her for the audience. Meredith? Meredith. Meredith looked all about until she heard the voice say, 'Over here, woman!'

Meredith looked at the source and saw a group of ants standing very still on the tree. Their queen spoke again. 'Will you help us, Woman? In exchange for a favor?'

Meredith thought about this. Then asked, 'What help do you need?'

'We need you to let us into your pockets and take us across the river. Every day the sky god sends lizard to eat us and cats to destroy our homes because we ate one of his fruits. But cats and lizards won't cross the water; we'll be safe there.'

Meredith thought again. Then said, 'What sort of favor will you be able to grant me? Could you, say, bite and sting my drunken mother and her new husband to death? Or can you just keep the termites from my garden? Or are you only good for stealing crumbs from my neighbor's crops?'

'Once we live and grow in numbers on the other side, we will give you any of those wishes .'

Meredith thought further. Then said. 'And what will stop you from stealing the lunch from my pocket, then leaving before giving me my favor?'

'My honor as a queen!'

'Your honor wasn't good enough to keep you from the sky goddess's wrath. What good will it do me?'

'For your trust, I will order my three strongest daughters to remain here, for you to punish or spare, whatever my actions may be.'

Meredith had a thought. She agreed, and placed the ants into her pocket. She first splashed her pocket with water, to trick the queen, then ran to the sky goddess's shrine at the bend of the river. She rang the shrine's bell three times and the sky goddess appeared, looking with disdain at the woman and her pocket.

'What would you give me for the ants who offended you?' Meredith asked.

The sky goddess raised her eyebrows. 'Death to them, and to you if you obstruct my will.'

'That's a pity. I believed I could have offered you more than bad blood.'

'And who are you that you hold yourself on par with omniscience herself?'

'I?' Meredith rocked her head. 'I am organized luck. I assure ambition and could conduct your will into triumph.'

'So can I.'

'Nay. Not in the places where your sky can't stretch.'

The sky goddess thought. As she thought, she observed how the goddess of clouds and storms wandered through the air to hang her dark clouds above an unforeseen, yet predictable, lonely woman, limping with a lightning bolt for a staff. It was the first time in a long time the sky goddess had left her vantage point, and she had not planned for the changes in the weather. That really was beyond the pale.

 'Alright, woman. Show you can do this  and we may collaborate. Fail, and I will damn you.'

Meredith smiled at the sky goddess' self doubt. Or was it her hurried attitude. 'Done. Here,' Meredith emptied the ants from her pocket and for the lizards to swarm. 'a gift for a deal well struck.'"

"That's a crap story. What was so bad about the ant's favor that made the woman sell them out?"

"The ant wanted to earn trust by leaving hostages in a place she knew they'd be killed no one worth their salt has that little forethought or. No, you know what it was, yes you do, shut up, Sebastian, it was that the ants gave her a disproportionate amount of information, made too little backup plans--what even was the point of those hostages, what are only three ants good for, even for other ants?--and they didn't have the damn sense to do anything when they clearly heard every part of that conversation. No, fuck the ants. No."

"Your spoon fed symbolism sucked too. And am I supposed to be the fucking cats and lizards?"

"What?"

"Because of my stories about that tiger I chased and the giant lizard I saw at Manila?"

Jim glared sideways at him through the false security of the dark. "No. But probably." Jim paused and rolled on top of him, grinding his hips, and bit sebastian's lips painfully. "Get over yourself."

\---

Three more ships marched in within the next four weeks. Mr. Holmes had not spoken to her for at least three of those weeks, and fresh water may as well be liquid gold for what it's worth at this point. Anthea took to sniping then raiding Moriarty's ships, but the stream of fights halted soon enough.

Before the dry spell, however, Anthea pulled a shipwrecked crew member on board with her once. "Goddamned whore!" Two of her teeth went flying across Anthea's deck. "The hell you think you are, fucking cunt?" Two bullets, one to the sailor's shoulder, one to her thigh. "I'll kill you, little bitch!"

Anthea pined Moriarty's exhausted sailor face down and held her head upright by the hair. The heavy buck knife breezed from its holster on Anthea's leg as she wedged the blade into the woman's mouth, with the edge teasing the cheek. "The next thing you say better be worth your tongue," Anthea pressed the tip into the yielding skin. "How do you and yours keep finding this place?"

\---

"There was once a man locked in the Dauphin's dungeon for fucking up a crime. He was chained to the wall with a rusted metal leash and collar nailed far above him. On the eve of his execution, the man looked up at the only window in his cell, far above him, and faced the moon. 'Moon,' he pleaded. 'I swear I've repented! Please help me!' And the moon ignored him because it was the fucking moon. The man waited up all night until day break. When the sun began to rise over the city, the man faced it. 'Sun,' he begged. 'I promise I won't do it again! Please let me live!' And the sun also ignored him because the sun can't fucking talk. When he began to hear the footsteps of his the guards coming down the hall to bring him to his execution, the man dropped to his knees and faced them. 'Guards!' he sobbed. 'I don't deserve to die! Please give me freedom!' The guards looked at each other and one smiled at a thought. 'Alright, man, you may have your freedom. All you must do is climb up the wall and escape through the window. People will see if you leave through the door, and the window is a short drop.' The man cried his thanks and looked at his task. he grasped the leash that bound him and began to climb up it, higher and higher, until he was able to pull himself onto the window's ledge. the man looked back down in delight, but then realized 'I can't fall down! I'm still bound to the prison!' the guards looked at each other again and the other lifted his sword and struck at the rusted chain until a link broke. the man smiled widely and gave as much thanks as he dared. but as he slid down the window, the guards quickly grabbed onto the chain and held it until he could feel the tug of the man breaking his neck."

"Go the fuck to sleep."

"It was better than any of your books."

"Shut up,"

"At least it's not a six-hundred pager about the merits of getting hard ons while harpooning elephants."

Sebastian turns over and ignores Jim's efforts to restart any conversation, ignores his inability to go any further than a light doze, ignores the deep-muscle itch that spreads through his neck.

\---

Sebastian silently held out a cut of meat from the bird he killed that day to Jim who silently ignores the gesture. Jim continued to ignore the world while Sebastian resigned to at least enjoying _his_ meal, and a fuck off to you, too. To Sebastian's credit, he did make a valiant effort to withhold Jim from malnutrition, albeit, in the form of force feeding on occasions just such as this. Such as last night. And the night before.

Sebastian never focused on Jim for too long when the passivity--no, nothing like Jim could ever be passive. Not calm, either. No man with a sitting heart rate of 150 could ever be calm. Static, sure. For the sake of progression, Jim is static. To the naked eye. Sebastian never focuses on it for too long. He makes do, sleeping when he can in the jungle because God knows he'll never survive sleep next to a quiet, static Jim Moriarty. Not that he had put it to the test, exactly, but Jim has track records which weigh upon the situation like the earth on a set of unfed shoulders. So Sebastian eats what he can when he can and sleeps when he can where he can.

"Meat?" Sebastian final offer is also ignored. He tears off a piece of his and pushes it through Jim's lips, works the jaws a bit to get him started, and pushes in another bite.

Sometimes Jim will stay out on the beach all night to stare out at the stars, like he does then while Sebastian force feeds him or tries to coax out a conversation. Sebastian wipes the meat grease off on his raged trousers, but still tries to fish Jim out of his own mind.

"I've been thinking about you today," Sebastian traced his hand up Jim's leg and squeezed the inner thigh. He kissed Jim's neck, Jim's jaw, Jim's patchy beard. "About you and your--"

Jim grabbed his hand suddenly, cutting his chipped nails into the skin. "Stop that." Jim's eyes are forever upward, even as he spoke. Sebastian tried to pull back his arm but the nails shot deeper until they drew blood.

Sebastian shook and wrestled his arm out of the grasp. "What the hell is your problem?" When Jim's grip tightened still, Sebastian rose to his feet and pried at Jim's fingers. "Get off!"

Jim tackled Sebastian in a screaming, biting, kicking fit. Sebastian managed to hold Jim in a screaming, biting, kicking pin for one or two minutes until a manic surge of energy shook Jim. Through feral twisting and thrashing, Jim slipped free from Sebastian and crunched his knuckles into the  man's temples again again again. Sebastian pushed himself out from under Jim's hits in the flash between punches. With one fluid motion, Sebastian kicked at Jim's shins and elbowed his kidneys as Jim came crashing down. With a graceful U motion, Jim flew straight back up and around to Sebastian's throat, strangling with those damned nails and biting at hands reaching up down to the bone. As Sebastian's vision faded, Jim unhooked the strangle long enough to hit the Sebastian's head one last time, joint to bleeding temple.

Sebastian, for the rest of his life, is never sure what made Jim stop beating him, but whatever it was, it also had Jim reclined next him as he blinked his way back into a blurry, spinning world.

"Why won't you just kill me?!"

Jim's line of focus circled in out and round Sebastian, like a vulture. "Because, you see, they each have to stay with the other. Because that's how the story goes." Jim's lethargic demeanor seems mismatched with his hyper, manic tone. "That's how it has to go for the rest of the story to read like it could if it were half way publishable."

"This isn't a fucking fairy tale, Jim!" Sebastian shouts as his consciousness dribbles out of him again in the trickle of blood.

\---

Jim wanted to be surprised when he saw anthea lounging on his quaint beach with wine chilling on a small table and matching beach chairs. really. he did. he wanted to be curious, too. possibly, no, definitely more than he wanted to be surprised he wanted to be curious. his mind was not solid enough, to throw the phrase around, to delight in the development, and. that. fe _eeel_ ing or lack thereof. was as close to death as HE WOULD EVER let anyone bring hm. but. as it were, Jim gave the development the old heave ho, and knelt on the ground to push sand on top of the fire until it went out. but. anthea paid no head. or maybe she'd killed Sebastian already. Jim would kill her if she beat him to it so help him god he would sent mycroft her heart in a box her eyes in a wine glass her tongue and hair and skin in a stew if she had the audacity to steal that moment from him.

"Deary me, Miss Innis, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Jim swayed to his feet. his rags clung awkwardly to his sweat in some places and twitched with his shaking, hollowed body in others. His oscillating head has spread with viral speed to the rest of his body, staggering in a set radius around his nest of ashes, twigs and rags.

"Mr. Holmes was wondering if you'd care for a ride home." anthea's unseen expression was decorated by large, fashionable sunglasses and a pink sun hat.

Jim showed his teeth and chuckled in gurgling, strained exhales. he helped himself to the second of the three glasses set out and twisted the empty luxury between his fingers. "Give me your mobile."

"Why does--"

Jim leapt over the table and stitched his fingers into handfuls of anthea's hair and neck in the same breath that her handgun pushed into Jim's stomach, sandwiched between their bodies. He lowered himself forehead to forehead. "Be a dear?"

"In my tote."

Jim slid off of anthea's lap with an air of delirium. overturning the bag, Jim grabbed the phone off of the sand and tossed it between his hands for as he thought until finally laying back onto the sand while he dialed. anthea still had withdrew her gun, he noticed. She sat it comfortably in a wide pocket in her sundress, smoothing the ruffles across her lap like she would an open book.

" _Mycroft Holmes speaking_."

Jim chuckled. mycroft's voice didn't seem real.

_"Mister Moriarty. How was your holiday?"_

Jim's laughter shook him violently. "Wine on the beach?" Jim laughed at himself and his loss and at big brother' s one-upping,  good god when did that happen? mycroft started to say something at the same time Jim began to cough from his laughter, then threw up. "You're going to spoil me rotten, darling."

" _Have you reconsidered my offer for a partnership? I would so value an opportunity to review my terms with you once again_." Jim could hear the smirk in mycroft's tone. the one he only ever wore for any and all matters concerning the twerpy brother with a weird name. and that. is quite a bit of nerve, Jim feels.

Ah but there it is. Jim can feel the chemistry revitalize itself at the opportunity to organize his thoughts for glory or for conquest or for fun, and so Jim soaks up the challenge while the afternoon sun above his little prison getaway curates his eyes and muscles. He relaxes, for the first time, into the island's pulse of sound and smell and the crunches of Sebastian's bare feet leaping over and across the forest to the put out fire. "I _have_ ,"

\---

Sebastian slowed his sprint to a trot as he crossed the sand. He took in the sight of _beach chairs_ of all bleeding things, with steadied confusion.  "Jim?!" He paced around the chairs hesitantly bent over to lean on his knees when he finally saw their guest. "Jesus Christ, you've got to be shitting me."

"You know how we found you two, don't you?" Anthea sipped her drink, leaving the question as just a question. She patted the seat across the table from her. Sebastian looked about and found Jim laying some twenty feet off to the side on someone's mobile before he worked his way up to the invitation.

"Jim figured something out."

"Oh did he ever."

Sebastian collapsed into the chair beside her, speaking through is defeated sigh. "So tell me or fuck off."

Anthea took her cigarette case from her pocket and held it out. Sebastian swiped at the case with a heavy swing and smiled a wide, unbelieving smile as he helped himself and leaned into the lighter Anthea pulled out in succession. "Mr. Moriarty and his talented virus hacked the signals of the locator chip Mr. Holmes gave you."

"Mycroft didn't give me shit."

"Gave, or tripped and dropped it into an open wound. It's all a matter of semantics, really."

Sebastian took a longer than strictly necessary drag. "You're full of shit."

"No. I'm not."

"Bullocks, don't insult me. There ain't a damn thing in this world that'd keep Jim from bragging about gaining an inch over Mycroft in anything."

Anthea stared down into her drink before downing the last three or four mouthfuls. "You need to get over yourself."

"Yeh? Guess we both do."

"Maybe. But God knows that day isn't today." 

Sebastian snorted as he wedged the cigarette between his lips to pour himself a drink of that arm and a leg priced wine he knew Mycroft would casually send. He heard the last of Jim's voice trail off and watched him disconnect the call before coming up beside them.

"We good to go, then?" Sebastian asked. Jim took a deep breath, placing his hands on his hips as he stared out to the ocean. Without a word, Jim snatched the bottle from Sebastian's hands, dumping the rest over the sand and sea-sharpened shells as he approached the water. He hurled the phone into the shore as hard as he could, and dove head long into the waves.  

"Jim?" Sebastian was ignored as Jim continued to flounder through the still-shallow water to the boat anchored not twenty yards out. Just before the sea dropped, Jim clambered his way to the boat. Sebastian watched with the same perplexity he saw on the expressions of Anthea's two other ship mates as the women pull Jim aboard. The bemused confusion was quickly steamrolled when Jim broke the bottle and drew blood. " _Fuck_!"

 Sebastian's instinct to spring into the water was redirected when he notices Anthea aim her gun in the sliver of his peripheral. He grabbed at the gun while rutting into her from her left, but misses. Anthea took the outstretched arm and snaps the joint before she registers the reaction. Sebastian broke a wine glass with his good arm before tossing himself into a second lunge, this time overwhelming her with his weight as they fell to the sand. A kick to the groin freed Anthea from Sebastian's grip, but earned her a stab to the hip as she struggled to put distance between them. Distance that is, with no small effort, taken with a bleeding, swearing draw.

Anthea and Sebastian stare down each other, gun pointed and panting, as the body-length space between them flips like  a coin in the air between being a security and a challenge. A scream draws both their attention away from their fight to the ocean, where Jim minces the sailors with in a rage that could weather any storm.

"I'd bet any hand of cards your orders are to keep us alive."

Anthea's neutral expression stiffens. "Semantics trumps all, remember?"

"Don't pussy foot around it, then. Shoot me. Please."

Anthea's muscles tensed on and around the trigger when a flair came rocketing toward them. Anthea jumped back and out of the way as it passed, hitting the table and chairs. Sebastian ran out to the sea and floundered with one arm out to the boat. Anthea took aim and shot a generous about of bullets into the waves which obscured Sebastian's clear target. She must have hit him, at least minorly, since she watched him kick a shark in the face as it smelled his blood and shot up after him while he climbed into the boat.

\---

Sebastian collapsed onto the small deck laughing and hurting. Jim was crudely steering the boat at the wheel not away from the island, but around the side. "Sebastian, get up and keep the boat going this way." Jim left the wheel before a confirmation or an angry _fuck off_ , and Sebastian was hard pressed to either wallow on the deck in his injuries or keep them from getting beached. So over the corpses of the two women Jim killed he went, and sank into the driver's seat with his good arm slumped by the wrist over the wheel.

Jim knelt out onto the deck behind the railing with two flair guns and wasted no time in shooting their entire arsenal at the forest. Smoke rose seconds later and was quickly replaced by a wide set fire, quickly consuming the foliage and animals. Like the trees, Sebastian's adrenalin rush soon gave way to the intoxicating pain in his arm and waist where Anthea's bullet had grazed him.

Jim walked away from his finished work and wrapped his arms around Sebastian from behind. One hand boldly groped Sebastian's groin through the battered trousers while the other rubbed the nails across Sebastian's beard. "Clean yourself up and fuck me over the railing while the sharks are still following us." Jim bit Sebastian's neck and took the wheel. With a little shove, Jim sent Sebastian down below deck.

Sebastian wondered through his lusty and painful haze of exhaustion whether Mycroft would want Anthea after this. His half formed concerns were answered by the plane that flew over them and landing beside the island that was now more of a grey smudge on the horizon. A bug, really. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, Will.  
> But I never said it was porn.  
> Hope that's not a deal breaker.  
> Oh and  
> Good luck during basic training!  
> You'll do great!


End file.
